


Cluck Me a Lover

by garnetsblue41



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Peter gains himself some feathers, Peter objects, Stiles thinks it's funny, Supernatural Shenanigans, but it's Beacon Hills so not really?, with embellishment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-30 11:55:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12653070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/garnetsblue41/pseuds/garnetsblue41
Summary: Peter is tarred and feathered. Stiles kisses him better.





	Cluck Me a Lover

**Author's Note:**

> Lazy one shot because I crave some fluff to soothe my blackened soul.

Stiles stares.

“What the hell happened to you?”

“What do you think?” Peter growls, thick strips of dark sludge crawling down his forehead. He trudges inside, and the _schlop, schlop, schlop_ of his boots pepper the otherwise silent hallway as he makes his way across the house. “The poltergeist had a sense of humor.”

“He thought this was funny?” Stiles asks, skeptical. He was a spirit bent on revenge with three victims left in his little black book. Stiles doubts he had much room for levity.

Peter says nothing, shifting guiltily in the middle of the kitchen, and Stiles suppresses the twitch that tugs the edge of his lips.

“You couldn’t resist, could you?” Peter Hale, werewolf extraordinaire, he who loves to portray abject nonchalance even in the tightest situations, and he can’t control his urge to bait his targets.

“I had him cornered,” Peter scowls, whining, almost. “I didn’t think he’d be boneheaded enough to shorten his already waning life span-” He pauses, realizing he’s talking about someone who’s dead and has been long enough to ping their radar. He huffs. “You know what I mean.”

Stiles hums, striding briskly to the bathroom to grab a towel. He’ll also need a bucket of hot water. He looks back at the pitiful figure on his kitchen tiles; a string of tar snaps back as a feather plummets to his feet. Stiles snorts. Better make that a good dozen.

“So what did you do to make him think that bundling you in a coat of plumes was a good idea?” he calls, digging through the drawers.

“How should I know? I don’t think in moron,” Peter replies, irritation and disgust radiating down the hall.

“Let me guess: you were being a bit too _cock-_ y for his tastes. Get it? ‘Cuz now you’re a rooster,” he grins winningly, waltzing back, arms laden with cotton worn down to rags. It’s tar—he’ll never get them back and he’s been gunning to dump these for ages, anyway.

“Hardy har-har,” Peter deadpans. “As a general rule you should never have to explain your own jokes.” He snatches a towel from the top pile. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to be able to see my own skin again.”

He toils the trek to the backdoor, and a few more feathers flutter to the ground in his wake. Stiles swallows down a laugh, and says, “Don’t forget to tarp before you hose!”

The petunias are looking parched. They don’t need asphyxiation _a la_ viscous black gunk added to their list of woes.

“I’m not an idiot. And your concern for my welfare over that of your stupid pea plants is truly touching!” Peter snarks back, poking through the glass as best he can, touching as little as possible.

Stiles smirks, walking back down the hall. His highness will be wanting that hot water, soon. “Could’ve fooled me,” he says lightly.

“I _heard_ that-“

Stiles chuckles.

-

“Look at you,” Stiles praises when Peter finally struts out of the shower, clean and still steaming.

Peter smirks, wrapping the towel—a nice and fluffy one, this time—higher up his waist. “I’m irresistible, I know,” he says.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I think I liked you better when your outsides matched your insides,” he drawls, sidling closer. “Maybe I should get you something more permanent.”

“I’ll pass,” Peter sighs, widening his stance to let him squeeze against the V of his hips.

Stiles does, twining his arms around his trunk and hooking his fingers together in a loose hug. “Well,” he muses, “you could be a halfway decent person now, I suppose.”

“And I want to keep it that way,” Peter sniffs, trailing a hand up Stiles’ shoulders and to the soft baby hairs at the back of his neck. “Only you would enjoy marching around with Big Bird as your arm candy.”

_Moi?_ Stiles blinks innocently. Peter snorts.

“’S just as well, you make cardboard look like a fashion statement.” Stiles shudders, “Next thing we know, everyone will be swanking around in goose down just to claim they’re a trendsetter.”

“What, tar and feathers don’t do it for you?” Peter raises a brow.

“I prefer my stickiness more on the…organic side,” Stiles smiles, dipping his fingers into the space between flesh and cloth. He pulls, tugging. “Besides, I don’t need feathers to see that you’re just a big ol’ softie.”

Peter grabs his wrists before he gets too far, circling his thumbs over the delicate skin, teasing. “Tell that to the poltergeist decorating the walls of the china shop downtown.”

Stiles nearly squirms from impatience. “Eh, he had it coming.”

Peter smirks again, the asshole, but obliges in hauling them closer, sliding his hands to Stiles’ hips as he fuses their mouths together. Stiles sinks into the kiss, basking in the glow of affection, and his breath flows out of him in a quiet exhale as they part. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

Peter softens, eyes crinkling even as his lips draw into a bow that’s as catty as it is self-satisfied. “You’re reaping the benefits of this arrangement.”

“I’m counting a few advantages,” Stiles says smugly, agreeing.

Peter tugs at the small of his back, trying to press him closer even though there’s nowhere to go.

“I want a comprehensive list by Friday.”

“I’d need at least the rest of my life to finish. It’ll be my _chef-d’oeuvre.”_

“Oh Stiles, that’s _French-“_

“The Addams Family? Really?” Stiles snickers, cracking up.

Peter settles, smiling against the shell of his ear. “You make me want to kill for you. I thought it was fitting.”

“You did blow up a demonic wraith without too much complaint,” Stiles points out.

Peter nods importantly. “Yes, I did. And do I get a reward for my efforts?”

Stiles grins.

The towel slides onto the floor, joining the feathers and muck still puddled around them. By the time Stiles and Peter get around to cleanup, they'll leave a lasting mark on the panes. But that’s the price of living with a gooey chicken like Peter Hale—he’s afraid of _feelings;_ Stiles is nudging it out of him, inch by painstaking inch—and Stiles loves him just the way he is.

“You’re cleaning the backyard,” he insists when all is said and done.

...He does have his limits. (Tar and feathers. Gross.)

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a review at your discretion. Thank you.


End file.
